


Fight or Flight

by crewdlydrawn



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Batman - Freeform, John as Robin, M/M, boxing au, fight ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-18 04:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: Against the advice of his bat-suited vigilante mentor, John Blake goes undercover to investigate an underground fighting ring making trouble for Gotham City's disadvantaged youth.





	1. Audition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harlanhardway (Target44)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Target44/gifts).



> Happy Batsversary, Fandom!
> 
> Prompt contained an option for Boxing AU, and an appreciation for Tim Drake, and John being Robin. Also "Crane being awesome." Hope some of that came out right!

“Shadow’s League”, that was the name the fighting ring went by.  The name seemed to serve a dual purpose—first, to lend an air of mystery to a group who already operated below street-level, who could never quite be pinned down to one location or given proper names; second, there was an undeniable hierarchy of ownership.  Most who went looking didn’t find the man referred to as The Shadow, and many of those who did weren’t ever heard from again.

Most of the time, the affairs of such groups didn’t much affect the topside streets or those on them, but since the League’s activities had arisen, so had the number of missing persons reports showing up across the desks in precincts close to the Narrows.  Missing persons reports that John Blake knew damn well were most likely to be completely ignored based solely on where they were from.  Enough of his friends and their families had disappeared without a trace in the past for him to know better.

The case he’d presented to Bruce had gotten him a flat “No”.  In fact, worse than a flat “no”. 

> _“Forty-percent, Bruce.”  John followed a cowl-less Batman to the other end of the cave, tugging his left boot on as he went, hopping forward on the right one.  “Disappearances around the Narrows are up by forty percent!”_
> 
> _Working gauntlets over his hands, Bruce frowned.  “I heard the statistic the last time, John.”  Turning to face him, he fastened the gloves with his eyes on John.  “And we’re working on it.”_
> 
> _John’s jaw tightened.  “You mean the police are working on it.”_
> 
> _“Yes I do,” Bruce agreed, staring John down as he tugged the cowl over his head, fixing it into place, “and you know as well as I do that they’re the ones who need to handle this one.”_
> 
> _In his head, John half-mocked the deepening tone of The Bat TM’s voice once the mask had lowered over his face.  “They’re doing a shit job of it.”_
> 
> _“Language.”_
> 
> _“Well they are.”_
> 
> _“No, John.  Stay out of it, the whole thing.  I mean it.”_

There hadn’t been much room for argument, but then there rarely was.  It wasn’t a parent-child relationship, John was older than that, and Bruce wasn’t much for fatherly, and neither of them liked the idea of stepping in a lost person’s shoes.  Even so, Bruce had done a lot for John, had kept him alive after breaking up a fight he hadn’t started, had taken him under his wing—so to speak, and also just a bit literally—taught him, let him help, though he’d kept him out of the public eye so far.  When Bruce set boundaries, for the sake of their relationship, John tended to follow as best he could.  Ordered out of the underground completely, however, didn’t sit well with him, at all.

Despite what he’d told Bruce that night to get him off his back, John didn’t plan on keeping himself out of this one.

It made sense, he knew, for The Bat to keep away; the second any whispers of his presence came within five streets of an event, the whole thing collapsed, everyone scattering.  People feared Batman, and that was a good thing, a very useful thing, except this once.  John, on the other hand, wasn’t the Batman.  He’d been working on a title, and maybe it was foolish to use part of his legal name in it, but he liked it too much, and no one called him anything but ‘John’, anyway.  He could have his _own_ identity.  On his own, he could get where Batman couldn’t.

Casual observation could tell him a lot, and it served him well, for a few weeks.  He could tell where the events _had_ happened, and where they were currently, but only the initiated knew where to find the _next_ fights.

Initiations were fights, themselves.

To get information, John would have to fight.  To _prove_ he could fight, he’d have _to_ fight. 

His first pass didn’t turn out so well.  An unknown face was good, but his was also too young to be taken seriously.  _‘Get lost, kid’_ was quickly spit in his direction before he was escorted back above ground.  Waiting until he happened to spy another chance wasn’t good enough, so he got creative.

“Hey,” he dropped back down the flight of access stairs, landing a few feet behind the first lookout, in sight of the second. 

“Look, kid,” the first began to turn his way, “you’re startin’ to get on my nerv—”  Unable to finish, the first lookout found himself on the ground due to John’s left cross. 

With the second rushing forward, John set his feet, smirking.  A few jabs and a leg sweep later, and by the time a third and fourth man came into the access corridor, the first two were in the ground nursing their bruises.  Incredulous expressions aimed his way, John only sent back an exaggerated shrug.

It worked.  He got in.

Shouts could be heard three turns away from the open area above the outflows.  Out on the catwalks, the scene was wilder than John would have thought.  Next to and across from him were dozens of people on other walkways, some hanging halfway off of the railings while they yelled down towards the bottom.  The bottom was littered with pocket crowds wherever the structures were higher, and a larger ring had built itself around a flat, open area of damp concrete.  In the center of the ring was a fight that, from the looks of the first two seconds of John’s surveillance, wouldn’t be lasting too much longer. 

A large hand clasped around John’s shoulder, tugging him away from the railing.  “That ain’t for you, kid,” directed the deep-set voice from nearly a foot above John’s head.

Hackles raised, he had to think better of hitting away the large arm attached to the hand once he saw how _big_ the guy was.  Easily six-and-a-half.  Maybe more.  Deep brown skin shining under the fluorescent lighting, his bald head blocked John’s view of nearly everything as he stepped between John and the railing. 

“You gotta start out smaller, new fish.”

Without another glimpse of what had to have been the main event of the night, John was led back off the catwalk to a smaller corridor, an upper-level access area not nearly so open.  Guiding hand turned to a shove, and without announcement, John was thrust into the middle of a much smaller circled gathering, finding himself opposite a man who appeared several years his senior.  His shoulders were more slender, but solid, built up, and John could tell that there were more muscles hiding beneath his tee shirt.  That was fine; John knew how to use his own size to his advantage.

To his surprise, he was offered tape and hand wraps. 

“In case you win,” came the chuckled explanation accompanied by a harsh pat on John’s back by an older man who clearly had very little confidence that John would, in fact, win.

John barely had time to tuck in the end of the tape before the other man advanced on him, throwing a punch straight for John’s eyes, which he blocked with a raised forearm, using the time to sidestep.  Most of his training with Bruce had been full-body combat, using his surroundings, and a lot of backing away when he could.  Alfred, on the other hand, had taught him how to ‘dance a proper bout’, as he’d put it.  So he kept his feet light, unsettled on the damp grit beneath his boots, working the space, small as it was, between the walls of shouting, arm-waving onlookers.  Though his own arms took a beating for a minute or two, John won without a mess.  A few solid hits, and the other guy was flat on his back just long enough to be called out before he curled to the side to nurse his wounds. 

Blood from the loser’s mouth and nose was still shining on his wrappings as a new opponent was ushered in front of John. 

By the time he’d finished five fights, his own split knuckles had added to the mire soaking through the tape and gauze.  Add to that the number his own teeth had done on his lips and cheeks from the inside, and the eye he could barely see out of for the moment, and John knew there was no way he could go back to the Palisades that night to check in with Bruce.  Not for all of the soothing tea in Alfred’s kitchen.

“Hey, kid,” coming from the blinded side, John couldn’t see the voice’s owner until he got closer, but he could tell from its pitch that it was the same man who’d first steered him away from the main fight.  Even with John sitting three steps from the bottom of the access stairway that’d lead him to topside, the guy loomed over his head.  The human tower.  “Nice work, tonight.”

Spitting to the side, hoping to get at least most of the copper tang out of his mouth, John snorted, then instantly regretted the motion, his eye twitching closed tighter.  “Not bad for a ‘new fish’, then?”  With his good eye, he stared up at the man’s stalwart face, showing no-doubt blood-reddened teeth in a smirk to the side in his best attempt to exude even more confidence than he had.  And he had plenty, so far.

Either completely ignored or carefully filed away, John’s question received no answer or even acknowledgement.  “Got a name?”

“This, uh,” he spit again, desperate for a drink to wash away the taste of blood, “this didn’t strike me as the type of establishment that asked for I.D.”

Skin taut over his arms as they folded across the man’s chest, a black eyebrow peaked.  “You’re about to walk onto the street with five wins under your belt on your first night, not counting that audition in the stairwell.”  With the obvious stated, John nodded, tilting his head in exaggerated anticipation of the point.  “You give a name, you get an invite.”

Jackpot.

“So, what, it’s like a promo type deal, let everyone know who’s gonna fight?” 

Zero expression shift.  Not even the eyebrow lowered.  “Something like that.” 

_Well,_ John thought to himself, and stood slowly enough that he didn’t shake, his face above the tower’s then, _it’s as good a time as any._

“Call me Red Robin.”


	2. Call Back

                                _[I’m fine.  Taking care of some things.  Check in soon.]_

Send.  The bloop that accompanied the text’s “delivered” status had John gnawing absently at his lip.  Plenty of times he’d texted Bruce as an update, plenty of times he hadn’t even gotten an actual reply and everything had gone on as normal.  With everything going on at the moment, however, he only had hopes that ‘normal’ would win out.

Hope didn’t last too long.

Before his screen could even fade to lock, John’s phone was vibrating in his hand, a very quiet recording of “Ride of the Valkyries” playing through the speaker to announce a call from Bruce.  And not just a call. 

                                [BROOSE is requesting a Video Call.] 

                                [ _Slide to answer_ ]

The buzzing reached his brain through his forehead, rested on his hand in a sigh.  Bruce’s Bullshit Meter continued to be carefully calibrated. 

                                _[Can’t talk.  Will call later.  Hi to Alfred.]_

It was cheap, maybe, to use Alfred as a distraction, but it was as sincere a message as John was sure it was a useless attempt at actually changing the subject.  Regardless, he flipped the bar to silence his phone, and tucked it into his pocket.  No one had told him yet when the next event would take place, but from earlier observations, they tended to be less than a week apart.  Avoiding Bruce for an entire week might prove difficult, but he’d have to manage.

They’d talked, once, about having John move into the manor—for support, for training, and a laundry list of other rational explanations that they both knew were complete bullshit.  Bruce was lonely, and it obviously fed his guilt to have John living in a dirty slum hole while he went to sleep every night on silk or satin sheets.  Or both; John figured anything was possible when someone was that rich.  John had laughed off the idea, and though they’d never discussed it again, he knew living somewhere else didn’t keep Bruce’s eyes off his life.

Apartments were for sleeping, cleaning up, and a place to stash your stuff; nothing more than that was necessary. 

For the first three days, John heard nothing.  He went to work at the bank—a security guard gig that should have paid more than it did—during the days, rested up in the evenings, and patrolled the known locations that the Shadow’s League had used in the last month after nightfall.  It wasn’t a straight cycle, that’d be too easy.  There was a pattern, a schedule of sorts, but so far it had remained just out of John’s reach.

On the fourth day, John walked home from the bank as normal, his eyes perpetually scanning the streets with his head bowed.  He looked the same as any other Gothamite who didn’t want to attract attention or who just wanted to avoid dealing with other people.  What wasn’t the same was the appearance of a beggar beside a steaming street vent.  Plenty of people found themselves on the city’s streets, and plenty of those did what they could to survive, including making a spectacle of sympathy, but this face wasn’t familiar to John, and the grime of his skin and the rumple to his clothes had his eyes narrowed.

It looked intentional, faked, staged like someone poised to play a beggar in a play. 

Letting his sign do the talking with everyone else, the man waited until John had nearly passed him to speak.

“Spare some change, sir?”

Though it wasn’t the _same_ , John’s uniform for the bank often had him mistaken for a police officer, on the street, to those who’d never had to deal with the police first-hand.  A man on the street, whether he had been in contact with police recently or not, seemed less likely to single him out from the throng of passersby.

Pausing, John didn’t turn fully.  Keeping the man almost entirely in the periphery of his vision, John stretched his hearing to the sides, listening, analyzing footfalls, waiting for the catch.  Legit or not, a couple of bucks wouldn’t hurt, so he slipped a hand into the pocket of his bag, tugging free a pair of bills from his wallet.  “Sure,” he let a thin, pressed smile of reassurance take his face as he pushed the bills into the man’s hand.

Fingers closed around his, instantly, keeping him from withdrawing.  A second hand followed suit, and the man’s eyes were fixed intently on John’s, as if there were no other souls in range to see or hear.

“Tomorrow night,” a far lower, clearer voice spoke only for his ears, “at the docks.  Warehouse thirty-seven.”

John leaned down to ease the tension on his shoulder.  “Alright.”  It seemed a little dramatic of a way to get the word out, but he supposed it left no trails.  “Anything else?” 

The man snatched the bills from John’s hand, smoothly replacing them with a playing card that was blank on the inside.  “Give ‘em this at the door, instead of a punch, kid.”  There was amusement in the words, sparkling in the brown eyes that turned away from him just as quickly as they’d grabbed for his attention.

Released, John was summarily ignored, his money having disappeared into the folds of the carefully dirtied coat in lieu of calloused fingers returning to their undoubtedly unnecessary sign.

\-----

One night.  That was as long as he would likely have without contact before Bruce would come looking for him in person.  One night was long enough.

The night after he received his card, John left his apartment complex, making certain there were no nocturnal vigilantes following him before heading for the shipping district.  During the day, he walked.  The bank was only a dozen blocks or so, and anything else he needed was well enough on the way.  At night, the city was too large to be at the mercy of his own feet.  Though Bruce had offered to replace the beat-up motorcycle he took around at night, John had settled for the use of the manor’s garage for supplies when he needed work done.  It kept him moving, which was good enough.

Ditching the bike a couple of blocks away, John found warehouse thirty-seven easily enough, despite no cars, no lights, and no sound coming from inside. 

Entrance was much easier this time, presenting his card allowing him to be ushered inside a back storage area without throwing any pre-fight punches. 

Step One was to get ahead of the event pattern.  Step One completed.

Step Two…

“This way,” a gruff voice pushed past him, and John followed a shorter man out of the back room, into the more open areas of the building.

Even in the filtered light of staggered street lights, John had seen the broken windows high on the outside walls.  No steady foot-traffic had been around long enough for weeds to grow up through the concrete near the doors.  The initial room he’d been led into had been scattered with bits of boxes, loose dirt, upturned shelves, and littered papers.  While parcel-moving equipment dotted the floor of the open space, scaffolds and shelf storage creating a maze-like pattern across John’s view, they were all empty, left behind.

Everything about the space silently screamed that it hadn’t been used in years.

Once again, John was led not to the largest gathering, but to the side, this time a sunken-floor area not a full story level lower, but a few access steps down.  Before his second boot could sift its sole against the dust, simultaneous cheers and ringing boos erupted from the mob ahead of him.  Their throng broke only to allow a body to be dragged out, a kid maybe a few years John’s senior, unconscious and bloody.  Arms over the shoulders of another pair of ‘helpers’, the victor didn’t look much better, or much older. 

With no chance to process his thoughts, John was pushed steadily into the ring by the same dark tower of a man he had encountered the first time.  This time, an entirely unfriendly smile lit his face as he announced to the crowd that their next show would be a re-run.

“And there is still time to place new bets!” 

A cheer of sorts worked its way through the throng of people more like an exaggerated murmur, though John thought he heard a few jeers of familiarity lobbed specifically his way on their way to change their wagers.  He was ready, having brought his own tape this time, wrapping his fingers and hands on his way through the warehouse, and he observed the crowd, the other crowds, and those taking the money while his opponent lined up.  A cold chill ran through his spine to see a teenager lobbed into the fray.  His face was shadowed by the overhead lights hitting an uneven shelf of tight curls.  Something in the image of him didn’t sit quite right.

His clothes looked new, not the sort one would expect for a kid shuffling through alleyways, avoiding cops.  He also didn’t seem nervous in the slightest.  It didn’t help him.

Bold or not, the kid was no match for John.  Knowing he would have to either knock him out or incapacitate him somehow in order to keep himself on task, John opted for a club to the ear after trading a few jabs, feeling the wallop the kid packed as his forearms were checked.  A pang of guilt shocked through his stomach when the teen hit the ground, a mix of emotive eruptions from their audience, but he barely had time to think.  With a quick glance through sweat-drowned eyes, he could see the excitement in the main area, but from the lower angle none of the center was clear.

“So what’s it take to get in?” he jerked his head in the direction of the larger crowd, aiming the question towards one of the men returning from carrying the teen out.  The question only earned him a laugh as a water bottle was graciously tossed towards his face, told to shut-up and start over.  There was already another teen being sent forward. 

Three fights.  A black eye.  A cut along his brow and a busted lip.  Bruises littering his arms and shoulders from blocked shots.  He walked away looking better after three than any of those he saw carried away after one. 

With all of the “new fish” gone for the night, he was congratulated with an unpleasant pat on the back that nearly sent him sprawling, and a laugh.  He had graduated, and was pushed out of the ring as the miniature crowd dispersed with their newly gotten gains, or, alternatively, their fresh profound losses.  Done for the night, he was told to enjoy the show.

Walking to the main ring, he pushed his way through the outside of the crowd.  Disgruntled shoulders jammed into his, keeping him out.  Craning his neck around heads only did so much good.  Tired of trying, he took a good look around, spotting a forklift to the side.  With an idea striking, he climbed it to sit on the roof of the cab, folding one leg and balancing the opposite foot on the hood for leverage. 

From there, he could see everything—every face in the crowd that wasn’t facing the same direction he was, every blow in the main arena.  Two large men were slugging it out, dancing around one another not very elegantly but effectively, not as bouncing and choreographed as professional fighters, but not as random as a street brawl.  The art of it was somewhere in between.  A vicious set of blows brought one of the fighters down, and despite a brief effort, he stayed against the concrete. 

At the fight’s end came something John hadn’t yet seen.  An announcer.

Smooth steps brought a thin-shouldered man in a likely once well-fitting suit into the center space, tossing a wooden crate onto the concrete before leaping atop it.  His face was shrouded in a mask that seemed closer to a sack in texture.  The way he moved was eerie, fluid and yet staccato, as if each languid motion cost him, sending him through glitches of jerks once he’d finished.  His clothing detailed, fancily stitched, and yet the mask plain, rough and patchworked.  He was at once intricately well-defined as well as vaguely shaped. 

_“The man in the mask…”_   The words fell from his lips, curious, questioning, and accidentally audible.

A rumble sounded beside him, low, lilting, and deep. 

The tower, ever-present, was laughing at him from just beside the forklift’s cab.  John hadn’t even heard his approach, which didn’t sit well in his stomach.

“That,” a thick arm rose to point at the spectacle in the center of the throng, “is not the Shadow. That is our scare-crow.”  A shrug briefly lifted the thick shoulders beneath his jacket, and John thought he could see amusement playing at his face.  “He helps to keep interest and attention where it belongs.” 

Across the small sea of heads and shoulders, the scarecrow had begun to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”  John hadn’t seen many women at all, so far, but that certainly didn’t mean there weren’t any there at all.  Despite no visible microphone or loudspeaker, the man’s voice carried over the general din of the crowd, which quieted just enough for John to hear more clearly.  “…One and all,” the masked man continued, “we thank you for your participation, for your… observation, and your… patience.”  The last word accompanied a ripple of laughter through the crowd, and John couldn’t help wonder what sort of joke he wasn’t yet in on.  “The event is over,” long, wiry arms flung themselves wide, “your winnings are yours, your losings are _ours_ ,” a foot stomped at the crate, the _thwacking_ sound echoing against the concrete walls.  “And next time,” the words were louder, shouted, reaching farther than the crate’s protest against his foot, “we promise you a special engagement, an event to test not just the wits of fists, but that will also allow…” slowly, his arms spread once more, his spine straightening as his frame stretched, “ _props_.”

Weapons, then.  John’s jaw ground tight, but the men around him cheered like they’d won a coveted prize.

“As a preview!”  All by itself, the half-statement rang like its own announcement, and the masked man gestured to a few burly shaped men to the side of the inner ring, who nodded, disappearing outward.  John’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, trying to hear and see everything at once.

Leaning turned out to be a mistake, as he slid forward towards the side of the cab’s roof, and instead of being able to catch himself, he was dragged down to the ground and set on his feet by a pair of large hands, no chance to regain control as he was shuffled straight through the crowd and into the center clearing.  Others were there, as well, maybe a dozen.

“These will be your champions, and, if you’ve paid any attention,” somehow, the stitched sack seemed to mock those in the gathering who had possibly not paid well enough, “you will note that they are all winners.”

Holding out his hand, bending his fingers quickly towards himself, earned the scarecrow a piece of paper.  From it, he began reading off names—nicknames—and each earned its own cheers and jeers from the gathered crowd.  The final name read was the one John had given the very first night.

“The Red Robin.”

Eyes were on John, then, and as he turned, taking them all in, wary in the waning effects of soaring adrenaline, a rectangle of lighter space caught his eye, high up on the far wall.  Squinting, he could see faint light from behind thick observation glass, and in its center, a pair of silhouettes, grey yet clear enough to distinguish with his good eye.  One was slender, shoulders likely broader than John’s, but the pacing of his build set him probably a couple of inches shorter.  By contrast, the other was head and shoulders larger, wider, thicker, rounder in the shape of his frame, and entirely _massive_.  In his gut, John knew immediately that his first guess had been very far off.

He had no trouble understanding the idea of _this_ man being defined by the shade he cast on the ground.

 

 


	3. Act One

If John had thought showing up to the bank with a shiner was awkward, he hadn’t properly prepared for coming home the next night to a bat-shaped lurker in his apartment.

“I’ve heard it’s more polite to knock, you know…”  Sparing the Bat only a glance, John set his backpack down and went for the fridge, gesturing with the soda he plucked out.  “You want anything?” 

Unmoved, the shadowed voice carried quietly through the dark space.  “Is that really what you’re going to say?”

Lifting himself to sit on the counter, not facing the Bat but in full view, John sipped at his drink.  “If you’re going to lecture me,” he started quietly, keeping his voice steady, resolute, “you might as well start.”

A palpable silence followed his words, and John was aware of the small shifts in the Bat’s posture, the discomfort in his stance and the cant of his shoulders.  It certainly wasn’t as if John hadn’t earned his share of lectures and arguments in the time they’d been working together.

“How many fights have you been to?”  His voice stayed flat, less readable to most, though John could practically hear the gears in his head turning while he considered the situation.

“Two.”  Clearing his throat, John set down his drink, bracing his hands on the edge of the countertop.  “I’ve got an invite to a third.”

The Bat made a noise low in his throat, his boots pacing across matted carpet.

“Not every kid in there is off the streets,” John broke into the silence, “and there’s a whole mess of people involved in running the show, people we haven’t seen any lick of on the streets or—or making waves.”  A few gnaws at the inner lining of his cheek, and he continued, “And I got a glimpse of him.”

The boot-pacing stopped.  “Him?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, plucking his drink back off the counter and leaning back with his shoulders against the bottom of the dingy cabinets, attempting to look nonchalant.  “You know, The Shadow.”

The Bat was in the kitchen, a foot from John’s face, before his eyes could process the movement.

And then he was Bruce again, the cowl removed, the black grease around his eyes the only remnant of the vigilante on his face that was barely visible from the street lights outside the window.  “What did you see?”

John rubbed at his face, unintimidated by the demand in Bruce’s voice.  “I told you, I just got a glimpse.  But,” he held up a hand to forestall the dismissal he could see already gleaming in Bruce’s eyes, “but I know it was him.  It was obvious.”  He explained the setup of the second fight, the silhouettes, and his belief that the Shadow had a second in command.  “I’m going back for the next one—and before you ask, no, I don’t know where it is, yet.”

Bruce was silent again for several moments before he let out a long, slow breath.  A gloved hand reached forward towards John’s face, but he moved aside, sliding off of the counter’s edge and out of the light, and the kitchen altogether.

“I’m fine.”  Walking across the tiny apartment’s main room that doubled as a bedroom, John sat down on the edge of his single bed, lining the wall beside the window. 

Following him, reaffixing the cowl as he went, the Bat clicked his tongue.  “Just this once, I’m going to pretend you didn’t give me that cliché.”  Moving to the window, he stared out it for several moments, fingers restless, only speaking again after a quiet clear of his throat.  “We don’t tell Alfred.”

John couldn’t help but laugh.

\-----

Having gone through his options, John opted for a long staff as his “prop”.  It was his best weapon, but he practiced anyway.  He would have asked Bruce to spar with him, but he had kept the truth of the style of the next fight out of their conversation. 

This time around, there weren’t any false beggars giving him hints.  No notes were left on his door, or other cryptic forms of messages he imagined might have happened.  Instead, a few nights after his talk with Bruce, a different person was waiting for him in his apartment.  Two persons.  Two persons not satisfied at all with merely sulking in a corner.

“Hey fish,” a stocky man greeted, tugging the string to turn on John’s floor lamp.  John wondered what exactly it was with people waiting for him in the dark, lately.

“Lemme guess,” he set his bag down, his muscles tense, “fight’s tonight?”

Short-and-stocky hit the arm of not-so-short-and-stocky.  “Kid’s a regular genius.”

John didn’t get a chance to even pick his bag back up.

With a two-goon escort, he found himself grateful he had his cell phone slipped into a pocket already, as the only thing they allowed him to grab on the way out was his staff.  Maybe they wanted to intimidate him, but his bet was on the fact they didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut.  Truth was, if they _had_ just told him where he was supposed to go, he’d at the very least have _thought_ about mentioning it to Bruce.

They were headed back underground, back into the old sewer and water access ways, and John had been following the movements of the League long enough to know they never used the same location again so quickly.  Between that and the fact they hadn’t used weapons during any of the fights he’d known about, John’s stomach was in a mess of wary knots.  His grip around the staff tightened.  A thought in the back of his head wondered if it somehow had anything to do with him, but that seemed too crazy.

He pushed the thought off as they went back beneath the city streets, back into the dripping, the damp concrete, the abandoned bits of scaffolding, and the tunnels. 

Crowds had already gathered below as John was led to one of the overlooking catwalks.  At first, he just watched, staying where he was put.  Every eye and yelling voice aimed at a center circle of open, raised space like the first main fight he’d seen.  There were no “new fish”, no side acts, and even the crowd looked different.  Many faces from the main event last time where scattered through the crowd, and many, many more men—and quite a few intimidating looking women, as well—guarding exits, watching the crowd from outside, whisking away fight winners, and keeping an eye on every fighter that was waiting.  Like John.

Through “research” which entailed straight-up eavesdropping, he learned that the fighting ring wasn’t just for bets; it was a recruitment setup.  Those who lost went home.  Those who won enough fights, who made it past a certain level without losing, were offered a place in the Shadow’s service.  A member of the League.  What that _was_ beyond guarding future fights was still yet to be seen, and he wouldn’t be likely to find out that night.

His turn was up.

First fight was against a woman, the first he’d seen fighting, smaller than him and brandishing escrima sticks.  At least two of his ribs were cracked before they were halfway done, but he made it out.

Second matchup pitted him against another kid, wide-eyed, probably younger than John. 

By the third fight, he was feeling tired, but adrenaline coursed through him, keeping him upright and ending the fight quickly enough when his skill completely outmatched even a larger man.  Confidence threatened to ruin him as the man was carted off and John declared the victor, and then the scarecrow man was in the circle once again.

“Have you been _entertained?_ ” his voice carried across the noise of the crowd, over their cheer, and rang between John’s ears.  “Your winners are clear, your money is… relocated,” a mixture of boos and laughter rang through the crowd, and if there hadn’t already been a clearly ordered air to the fights, John might have expected a riot, “and we bid you… farewell.”  With a sweeping-armed flourish, the man bowed low, and that was all it took for the crowd to begin to disperse. 

Of course, the stoic presence of League members dotting the outside of the ring and every exit certainly couldn’t have hurt.

Even nursing the radiating pain in his ribs, John recognized that something felt off about the way the night was ending.  While he hadn’t expected more fights, necessarily, there was chatter among the people walking away from where he stood catching his breath.  They were leaving, but they didn’t appear to think the night was _over_.

It turned out they were right.  Helped along by two large-framed men at his sides, John was escorted off of the platform, and over beneath a tall set of scaffolding.

“Wait here,” he was instructed, the voice seeming unpracticed with the words, “your turn comes soon.”

Propping his side against the thick leg of the metal framing, John eased the ache in his bones to let his vision stay sharper, his ears pricked and ready.  What exactly ‘his turn’ was, now that it seemed the fights were over, he couldn’t be sure.  He didn’t see the cause immediately, but was acutely aware of the ripple through the room, the straightened spines, the tightened frames, and he knew that the Shadow had to have entered the space.  It hurt to twist his torso to look, but his effort was rewarded with a view of the imposingly large man and who was likely the other he’d seen with him the last time walking in through a makeshift corridor. 

The shorter man left the Shadow’s side, and walked straight to the center of the platform, their scarecrow still there, amusement rolling off of his shoulders despite his face remaining hidden beneath the fabric mask. 

“And finally,” that lanky body swiveled in one smooth motion, aiming directly at John, “our little Red Robin has one,” index finger raised, “last,” it turned perpendicular to the man’s throat, “performance.”  With the final word, the tip of his finger moved horizontally across his throat, and John felt a chill run down his back.

There was no time to process the feeling, as he was 'escorted' from his space against the scaffolding frame up onto the platform.  Instead of a kid, or even a beefed up guarding goon to stand across from him, the second silhouette, wiry and lithe, stepped up to challenge him.  From the calm, nearly sleepy expression on the man's face, John did not appear to be offering much in the way of an actual challenge for him. 

Two people having squared off, the scarecrow left the center, disappearing behind an advancing line of League guards.  There were, at a quick estimation, fewer than four dozen people present, then, but the air in the clearing seemed to have left with the larger audience. 

Slipping a cargo jacket off his shoulders, the wiry man stepped close to John, not needing words to express that John was to start, to throw the first punch.  A deep breath hurt, but John funneled that pain into focus, blocking out the steady watching eyes surrounding him, and set his feet. 

The first hit he landed had to have been a gimme.  A small line of blood snaked from the corner of the man's mouth, and he wiped at it with a nod.  After that, accuracy became much more difficult. 

Most of his attention was aimed at his opponent, his speed, and his contrastingly languid motions that easily evaded John's strikes.   However, beyond the ring of attention on his movements, John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on their ends, those on his arms following suit once he even glanced in the direction of the Shadow, standing back from the crowded line and yet with a perfectly full view of the fight.  His wide hands were tucked casually beneath the collar of his jacket, thick legs set apart, a pillar every bit a part of the scenery as the scaffold.  Eyes glinting in the fluorescent lights were trained precisely on John's. 

Staring back for a split-second cost him a split lip. 

Without words, he was drawn back into the fight, not limited by hands, nor by the matching staff his opponent wielded.  More than once his legs were swept from beneath him, and he failed to do the same, outmatched in every attempt.  He found himself wondering if they put every victor against this guy or if it were a special form of punishment.  Even focused, he felt those eyes on him, closely, too closely, never breaking or seeming to follow the other man when John risked a look to the side.  Not looking was every bit as distracting, the mere knowledge of the gaze prickling at his skin, lighting his nerves on fire while he took hit after hit by consequence. 

He saw the fist-gripped end of the staff coming that knocked him flat, and had no time at all to avoid it. 

Awake when he hit the concrete, he only felt the cold and damp for a second before the world around him went dark, as well.

The world did not return immediately, or even all at once.  John was aware he was lying on a cot before he knew he was still underground.  His first thought had been perhaps hospital, but it was too quiet, too still, and far too damp.  Smells and sounds did not match, and so he eased his eyelids open, instantly regretting the action that sent the room spinning and his head splitting in two, melting back together in a sticky sort of way, and repeating.  Somehow, using his eyes set a ringing about his ears that did not ease when he closed them.  Sitting up was the last thing on his mind, and so he slowly, cautiously, brought his hands up to cradle his head, hoping that physically holding it would make the room at last stay still. 

"A concussion," spoke a soft, slightly hitched voice from several feet away.  "The concrete was harder than your head."

"Yeah," John croaked in answer, his own voice unnaturally loud as it swam inside his head, speaking possibly the only thing worse than opening his eyes.  "Pretty sure it ALWAYS is." 

It wasn't entirely clear that the chuckle he heard after speaking was actually coming from outside of his head.  Even the motion of fabric shifting was exceedingly loud to John's ears as the man apparently stood, stepping closer.  "You are lucky your head is also hard, and that it did not split."

Before John could figure out how to summon his voice again, a scraping sound shot through his skull, and only more fabric rustles told him someone had opened a door and come inside wherever it was they had ended up after the fight.  A risky peek told him it was the Shadow himself. 

"Man, if you fight concussed people," he forced, rolling to his side as the walls reverberated, "it's no wonder no one lives."  Though his stomach lurched threateningly, the new position had been a wise choice, allowing John to keep his eyes open longer.  If any emotion were showing on the blurry face staring towards his, John guessed it to be amusement. 

"You fought well."  It was John's turn to chuckle, but he killed it off as quickly as it burbled upward in his throat.

"I don't know if you watched the whole thing," he swallowed with effort, "but I lost."

A rumble sounded from the doorway.  "You did, yes.  But that is not always the point."

Part of John's mind became instantly annoyed with the conversation, similar rhetoric having come from Bruce many times in their training together.  "It was impressive, whether you believe that or not."  His voice was deep, but its tone lilting, not a distinctly American application of English, though John couldn't begin to place it.

"I'm so tough I can't even keep my eyes open to talk, or get myself home," he defended, aware that professing weakness was counterproductive, but feeling far too petulant from the ache in his brain to stop it.  Instinct told him he should be watching, should have all of his existence trained on the movements and mannerisms of both men, on his surroundings and how many exit strategies were available to him, as if his life depended on it—because it likely would, very soon—but he was so TIRED. 

"And had you won, what did you expect to happen to you?"  With only noncommittal noises coming from John, the Shadow, only slightly less blurry than when he had arrived, continued.  "Are you aware of what is offered those who complete the climbing of ranks of these fights?"

John nodded, stupidly, both from the pain and because he had only partial knowledge. 

"Why are you here?"

It was an unexpected question, and his fuzzy mind couldn't wrap around a way to straighten it.  "I was brought in... I didn't choose to be here."

"Why were you fighting?"

That was easier.  "It's what I do."

"And are you aware of what someone in your position has earned?"

Small shifts in the posture of the man he'd fought indicated discomfort, or perhaps anticipation. 

"By winning?  Word on the street is that you get a talk with you, and that seems right so far."  Warning bells were still ringing in John's mind, but there were distant things, having no sway over his tone.

Low humming thrummed against John's eardrums even from across the small room.  "And why would I offer such a thing?"

Conversation was exhausting, but it kept John awake, and he knew he needed to stay awake as long as he could, right then.  "You want people.  People to work for you."  There were more than the men he'd seen involved in Shadow's League, that much John was sure of.  How MANY more was more difficult to quantify.

"And you think this is something you can do?"  That tone shifted from questioning, leading, to more acutely curious.  An interrogation.  "What do you have that I might need?"

This.  He knew this.  He had made this speech before, and it sat familiar in his bones.  "I can fight," he began, as he spoke steadily repositioning his body, against the current of nausea, more upright against the wall behind the cot.  His ribs burned, but he could get enough breath while pushing the other side of his torso upward.  "I know the city."

"You are not a child of the street," came as an accusation, "nor are you destitute.  Why are you here?" 

This time the question was deeper, less amorphous, and John gave it an anchor.  "To meet with you."

"Why?"

In a poorly coordinated effort, John attempted to move himself off of the cot.  He was losing, even without fighting with his fists, and he couldn't lose.  Not then.  Dizziness overwhelmed his efforts, and he had to close his eyes again, swallowing carefully against the rise in his throat, acutely aware that he probably needed a hospital visit that he couldn't afford.  When he opened his eyes, the man was closer, no longer lingering in the doorway though in no better focus, and the other man had disappeared without making a sound. 

They were alone. 

John was alone with The Shadow.

Dragging over a stool, seeming as fluidly comfortable in the space as John might inside his own apartment, the large man sat down in front of the cot.  "What is your name?"

Another distant bell sounded.  "They announced it, during the fi—"

"That is not your name."

His chin wouldn't rise, preserving his head, but John felt his defenses kick in, even so.  "What's yours?" he managed to shoot back. 

Still impassive, mostly devoid of expression, amusement seemed to once again light the man's features.  "You will come to learn that in time."

"Okay then," John squared his shoulders as much as he dared, "same."  When a brow rose in question, he clarified, "You'll get to know mine eventually, too."  It was a brush off with more confidence than he was capable of feeling right that moment, but being dizzy and the world being blurry was turning off whatever fear response he knew he was supposed to be feeling.  In its place, he only felt sass and sarcasm.  

A long moment passed without words, a steely gaze boring holes straight into John's, for as much as he could place the angle, but he could only force himself to stare vaguely right back, feeling his eyelids twitch and squint with the effort of focusing. 

It was broken by a buzzing vibration. 

Patting his pockets and realizing his phone wasn't in them, panic led to John scrambling with a drunken rhythm to find it, only for the Shadow to pluck it smoothly from a table near the cot.  Not the tiniest phone, the device still looked miniature in the wide hand that held it.  Peering at its screen, his bald head tilted.  The name that came up was correctly pronounced, despite John knowing full well it was spelled like the large mammal it rhymed with.  "Bruce..."

FUCK.

"That's... a friend of mine."  It was worth a shot.  He could only hope that if he didn't make a grab for it, he might be given it back. 

No such luck.

"You will not be needing this," he was assured as the Shadow turned the phone off, tucking it into his own pocket. 

A sinking feeling dragged John's stomach downward, below the floor, and the ceiling tilted side to side as his head swam once more as if he, too, were underwater. 

"So.  You _are_ meeting with me."  Only a nod from John.  "And you believe what comes from this?" 

Repetitive questions were not helping his head.  His only idea may have been arrogant, but it could also have been correct.  "A place in your league."

"Is that a thing you are wanting?"

"Is that something you're offering?"

Broad shoulders shook silently for a moment before quickly settling, as if they hadn't.  "Do you always answer questions with more questions?"

John felt petulant.  "Do you?"  It was ridiculous, and surely pushing the boundaries of how much he could get away with talking to a man like this before he inevitably got himself killed. 

Words were on the air, flying past his ears in a muffled flutter, but he couldn't hear them.  All of his energy had gone into the conversation, and the room was fading once more.  This time, with the world fading away, unable to process the weight of his situation, he was grateful for the simple knowledge that he would at least only fall back onto the cot.


	4. Act Two

Light met his eyelids differently the next time he woke.  Drier air fed into his nose, and he knew before any other information that he was back topside.  Soft sheets beneath his skin told him he was in his apartment, despite not remembering how he got there.  The last thing that he could recall was a talk with the Shadow, his phone ringing, and—

His phone. 

Sore eyes going wide, John scrambled his way out of the tangle of sheets, patting his pockets, looking around the room that thankfully remained mostly still under his inspection, only to find his cell phone on the bedside table, plugged into its charge cord, as if the night before had been like any other. 

A slip of paper sat beside the phone, tucked precisely under the cord to keep it still.  Scrawled in a quick, light script were instructions to pack a bag, and to be ready by midnight.  Ready for WHAT, the note did not include.  Unplugging the phone once he was certain it was fully charged, John groaned, nauseated even without the help of his stomach. 

Deep.  He'd gotten himself in deep this time, and despite that depth, he still had no evidence of where kids went after getting into the fights, no way to make it all stop, and no clear signs that he should keep going or if he should stop. 

Thumbing the screen unlocked, John started to call Bruce, to check in, and maybe fish for advice without being too obvious about it and activating the Bat Ego.  Instead of carefully ordered contacts greeting his eyes, however, there was a nearly blank screen.  The only item left was one he had not programmed.

["Directions"]

Unfamiliar digits meet his eyes, a listing he'd definitely never seen before, and at once he realized they must have wiped his phone clean, leaving only a contact they wished to give.  And if they'd bothered, the likelihood that they were watching his calls and messages was high, no matter how many contacts he had easily already memorized.

Deep.  He was in DEEP.

Surveillance in mind, he gingerly left his apartment, making for the payphone on the corner.  Ignoring the unidentifiable sludge building in the corner near his feet, he dialed the manor, hoping to get Alfred.  He did. 

"John, it's good to hear from you, lad."

_Don't sound like you're in the dirty payphone chipping at graffiti._

"Yeah," he coughed away from the receiver, flicking paint chips from beneath his fingernail, "hi, Al, just, uh... I'm onto something, and I won't be in contact for a bit, that's all."

Of course.  "Are you in some sort of trouble?"  His tone was quiet, expectant, and from the shift in his voice halfway through the last word, he'd stood up. 

"No, no," he had to stop that quickly, before Bruce got involved.  "There's just a lead to follow.  Can you... can you let Bruce know I'll be back soon?"

There was silence for a moment, then a creaking sound, and then Bruce's voice came over the speaker. 

"Be careful.  Call for help if you need it."

John sighed, keeping his eyes from rolling only to stave off further nausea.  "Yeah, I know.  Got it." 

Hanging up the phone before anything else could be said, his finger lingered on the handle, the last bit of light splitting between the highrises.  It caught his eyes and stung all the way to the back of his skull. 

He didn't go back to his apartment right away.  Instead, he got some food, watching the streets for a couple of hours past sundown.  Part of him felt it was important, a reminder, centering himself.  He had no idea what he was in for that night, but he had to finish it or risk never figuring things out. 

At 11:59, the phone rang. 

[Incoming call: "Directions"]

It was the hitched voice on the other end, the man he'd come to assume was the Shadow's right hand. 

"The southern pier.  Alone.  Now."

The line went dead without further instructions.  Opting to leave his bike, he took a cab most of the way, walking the last few blocks to keep attention away from the area. 

The second he ducked under the last broken fence before the boardwalk, a cigarette butt flashed in front of his nose on its way to the ground. 

"Nearly late," the hitched voice accused. 

John was surprised the man himself was waiting for him, but stuffed that down beneath the surface.  "I'm here," he argued. 

He was led onto a boat, a ship, really, but smaller than the container liners that typically left Gotham ports.  At least a dozen men who had been at the fights were scattered around, and it looked like they weren't going to be stowaways.  There was a clear sense that everyone on the vessel was headed to the same place, wherever that was.  Not knowing was scary, but John knew all he had to focus on was staying alive and as safe as he could.  Wherever the League ended up, he could find a way to contact Bruce, and he’d have a way home.

A way home from who knew where.

Led to a room below deck with only a small cot and a built-in desk and chair, he was told to stay put.  Sleep.  He couldn't, especially knowing they’d already left port.  Quitting after an hour or two, he roamed the ship's claustrophobic corridors.  Most of the doors were locked, and finally even the passageway he was in ended in a gear-shut door that he couldn't wrench open without a lot of sound, enough to alert the crew up top or nearby that he was sneaking around.

Giving up, he turned around only to find himself nose-to-chest with the Shadow himself.  A startled gasp rattled his ribs, drawing his jaw tight for a moment.  His way past was nonexistent, as the man's shoulders took up almost all of the air between him and the walls.  How he’d managed to make no sound on his approach unnerved John.

"Uh... hi."  _Lame. Totally lame, John, great job._

"This is not the way to your cot."  Surprisingly, there was no accusation in the statement. 

"Yeah... got it."

"What are you trying to find?"

"Does that really matter, if I got caught?" He tried for sheepish, but his heart was pounding.  Part of it was fear, that much he recognized, the way his mind reeled and tried to figure out the best path to walk away unscathed, alive.  But there was something else, something he'd never felt before, and it prickled at his skin in a decidedly uncomfortable manner.  In a flash of realization he didn’t want to acknowledge, he realized the feeling was similar to how he’d felt during his final fight, being watched.

"It matters a great deal."  Something in the quality of the man’s voice so close to John’s ears had his skin pebbling.

One hand rising to rake back through his hair, John quickly decided not to make any more large movements in the limited space.  "Yeah, uh...  I guess I was looking for where everyone else was." 

"Sleeping."

" _You_ weren't."  John felt his chin rise, and cursed the ready defiance that bubbled inside of him. 

With the corridor's nearest overhead light behind him completely, the Shadow embodied his name once again.  At least, the front half of him did.  There was a haze of light around all of his edges, which only highlighted the mass of his build.  John found himself shifting on his feet, unsure of how best to hang his arms. 

Despite all of that, John felt a surge of bravery.  "Why am I here, really?"  It felt strange to turn the earlier question back on him, but it was different this way. 

The Shadow, however, seemed to find it amusing.  "You have much more fire in you when you are not dizzy."

"Not gonna tell me, are you."  He didn't bother pretending it was a question. 

"You already know."  The man hadn't moved, and John was highly aware of the access door he couldn't get through that was still only inches behind his back. 

"So every guy who loses to... whatever his name is, with the beard, they earn a spot?"

Barely glinting from reflected light, steely eyes considered him for several moments.  He didn't answer.  Instead, fingers on a wide hand motioned for John to follow as the man turned around and started down the corridor.  John considered going back to his room, but that didn't truly feel like an option at the moment, and so he followed.  Down the corridor, through a side turn, and an access portal that groaned and complained as the Shadow's thick arms worked its wheel.

The next corridor was dark, no illumination other than what made it past the Shadow's shoulders as they stepped through.  When John was instructed to close it behind him, there was nothing. 

"Uh..."

From within the dark, John's elbow was taken, and he was led on.  Trying to force his heart rate to slow to an even pace, a remotely reasonable speed, was fruitless.  Instead, his head felt light when he was finally guided into a room, its metal door swung closed behind him. 

Not completely black, the space was lit by a hanging kerosene lamp that must have been on its lowest setting, lending the illusion of candlelight.  With the lamp to the side, Shadow's face for once was not blocked, and John was incredibly aware of the lack of space in between them. 

Deciding to use the position to his advantage, he studied the face before him, its width, the tiny, crisscrossing scars that wound over the space of his mouth, over his lips, leaving little irregularities to disrupt what seemed to have once been large and smooth swells.  There were other markings, angrier, redder, though clearly also old.  Those ran from one cheekbone to the other, in front of and over one ear, and John had already been aware of one that ran down the back of his neck from a glimpse in the corridor.  Without his permission, however, John's gaze remained stuck on his mouth. 

"What, uh..."

"It is not that you lost, nor that you fought Barsad, at all."  One name down. 

"Alright... so what's the deal, then?"  John forced his eyes to rise, to meet the ones already staring into them before they even got there.  A weight settled into John's stomach, and his back found the metal bar across the door behind him as he tried to put more space between them.  It was only a small success in space gained, and he was very aware of the utter failure that resulted only in trapping him further.

Thick fingertips touched the edge of John's jaw, and when he didn't move away, a warm palm joined them in framing half of his face.  "It is not a fight that brought you to me.  Not something you did."  John began to question again, but the fingers tightened, finding purchase against the shape of his bones beneath the flesh.  "It is something you ARE."

Dry sides of John's throat ground against one another as he attempted to swallow, finding air not bothering to cooperate properly with his lungs.  "And what," he coughed in his chest, clearing his throat, carefully keeping a wince from his features, "what exactly am I?"

Space between them evaporated, and John held his breath as his eyes lost focus on individual portions of the man's face.  "You are a spark."

Questions, requests for clarification, and arguments where ready at the tip of John's tongue, but evaporated the second his mouth was covered. 

Logic screamed at him, trying to remind him of where he was and why, of who he was truly dealing with.  It told him to pull his head away, with what little room he had, or to push at him, but instead, his body betrayed his mind, his hands merely rising and pressing firmly against the man's chest.  Again, John's stomach dropped low.  His head began to swim.  It was still clouded when his lips were freed, his eyes hesitant to open until he forced the lids to snap wide. 

"Wh-What..." 

"Are you afraid?"  Two hands framed his face, their mouths so close still that John could feel warm breath against his skin. 

A shiver ran through him, but John could tell the difference.  "No," he croaked out, swallowing again to strengthen his voice, "no, I'm not afraid."

"And why is that?"

John was quite sure this man was used to everyone being at least a little afraid of him, and there did seem to be a touch of curiosity to his tone, but the prevailing sense was the same that John felt flickering through his nerves and flowing through his veins, no matter how hard he wished for it to stop.

Excitement.

John let the question go unanswered, still staring upward as if the man's eyes compelled his own to stay.

Their lips met again, and Shadow's hands wandered, fingertips slipping over the skin of John's neck, dropping to his shoulders, only to pass more roughly down John's sides, stopping as brackets over his hips, fingers tapping a moment.  Letting him breathe, he caught John's eye again. 

"There is a difference between not being afraid, and WANTING."  His hands shifted, fingers restless against the material of John's pants. 

John nodded, understanding the question that wasn't being asked.  "I want to."

There was a voice in the back of his mind, Bruce's, The Bat's, Alfred's, a mix of many, that told him to stop, to get himself out of this room, to go back to his own and be safer, contact Bruce and check in if he could, go along and see where this took him if he couldn't, but on his _own_ , without making it eons more complicated. 

Not quite so far back in his mind, he was aware of his own voice telling the others to shove it.

Grabbing one of the bracketing hands, he guided it to his own bottom, nearly regretting the encouragement as strong hands clamped down on his ass, lifting him bodily off the floor and pressing his back tightly to the metal door, Shadow's body flush with his. 

"Have you done this before?"  The words were nearly whispered, ghosting along with his breath over John's skin. 

"Yeah, yeah."  It had been a while, more than a year, in fact, since he had gotten laid, but it wasn't as if he could forget _how_.  A conglomeration of voices echoed in the back of his mind, again, but he ignored them.  "Do you have—"

"Yes."

That settled it. 

Steady breathing was optional for several moments, John's mouth opening to accommodate Shadow's crushing against it, and he was suddenly aware of small nicks along Bane's tongue, similar to the scarring along the edges of his lips.  Filed away for later, he would remind himself to seek out the story behind them if he could.  Pressed against the door, John was hardly paying attention to how MUCH air he had access to until there was more space between their chests, the pressure not so tight against his ribs.  His feet were still off of the floor, a solid grasp supporting his weight as if he were just sitting in Bane's hands.

"Strip."  It was ordered, demanded, and the same part of John that had told his inner reservations to shut up had him smirking, lifting his shirt from the bottom hem up and over his head, from one side to the other to keep himself from pain. Steel eyes regarded him in the low light.  "You have more skill than you have body."

John's face pinched, head tilted to the side.  "...Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Take it as you wish."

John snorted, but went to work on his pants, shimmying out of them by using the larger man's hips and hands as leverage.  Only the thin material of his boxer briefs stood between the warmth of wide hands and the skin of his ass.

Shadow claimed his mouth again, vicious, John's head hitting the door saved only by a relocated hand coming between his skull and the metal panel.  His ass was then only balanced on one hand, and he cinched his legs tighter, his knees far apart to accommodate a thick waist. 

Fingers sifted in his hair, tightening, tugging and drawing a gasp from John.  His neck was next, mouthed over, a flash of crooked teeth scraping over his skin. 

He knew he should have felt afraid.  Fear should have been overwhelming him, just as the frame pressing tightly against his own, but it wasn't, it was a distant thing he was aware of but could not touch. 

Instead of that, he felt blood running south, the rush in his ears, the pounding in his veins.  And the puff of breath against his ear.  John's fingers ran over smooth-stretched skin covering muscled arms, up to his shoulders, digging in tightly to anchor himself.

Shadow ground his hips against John's, dragging his erection harshly with the thick material of cargo pants.  All at once, they were no longer against the door, and John was carried to a cot similar to the one he'd been given, just larger.  There was no time to think about the size difference of cots when he was set down, as he was busy concerning himself with the size difference of his body and the body preparing to descend on it.  The dark t-shirt Shadow had been wearing protested leaving his frame, clinging to every muscle swell and tight crease while being dragged up and over his head. 

More scars flowed over his torso, glowing a ghostly white in the light from the kerosene lamp.  They weren't the familiar starburst patterns John was used to seeing around Gotham, not likely gunshot wounds, but long tracing lines, small scattered dots as if someone had just tossed them onto his skin.  An impulse flashed through his brain to trace them, but it evaporated with heavy weight pressing onto the edge of the cot.  It creaked beneath the strain, complaining, and John felt the frame of his body do the same once that weight was on him, as well.

That pressure was different, with bare, warm skin sliding against his own.  He was heavy, but John did not feel trapped, or crushed.  It was pleasant, but also thrilling, the reminder of present danger sending electricity through his limbs, even before the larger man slid himself out of his pants, completely bared and tugging at John’s shorts.

Distantly, John was aware of the hum of the ship, reminded of the fact they were headed away from Gotham, that he didn’t yet know where, but his body refused to allow his brain to focus on anything but the fingers tucking beneath his waistband, dragging along his hips to remove his shorts.  Those fingers were thick, but not unpleasant when they worked to open him up, getting him ready.  Even with the occasional self-practice, it had been long enough that he bit back a hiss, surprised that the motion slowed, steadying.

“Not slow.”

Nothing shifted from his words.  “You are tight,” was all the argument given, flatly enough to be a debate-ender.

Embarrassment flushed into John’s cheeks. 

That feeling didn’t stop him from rolling his hips towards three of those fingers, a keening sound in the back of his throat that he bit down onto his forearm to stifle.  A bite which deepened once muscled hips set into motion, any possible thoughts flying out of his head, nearly losing himself to matching that movement.

Teeth loosened in a gasp, John’s head was tilted roughly back by strong fingers tangled in his hair.  His body was covered closely, weighed down on the complaining cot, and dimly glittering grey eyes stared intently into his own.  No words were needed.  Intensity shifting in his motions was enough to tell John that the Shadow was close, and though John wasn’t, and knew he wouldn’t make it in time, he planted his feet wide on the cot to open himself wider, raising his bottom for a deeper angle.  Even more weight and pressure crushed down on John at the advantage, but only for a few brief moments—long enough to shove the crown of his head along the cot and bumping up against the sheet metal wall—before a deep, rumbling sound issued from the Shadow’s throat, vibrating through John’s arm where it was bracing against his broad shoulder.

From his position, the role he’d allowed himself to assume, John wondered for a brief moment if they were done, but quickly enough, a wide palm reached between their bellies, expertly slipping its grasp around John’s shaft where it lay against his waist. 

“God, yes, please.”  He had no hope of keeping the words from bubbling past his lips, clinging to Shadow’s neck and shoulders, fingertips no doubt leaving dents with half-moon nail marks as he shuddered and bucked beneath the direct attention.  Feeling his muscles tense and tighten, cinching around the thickness still penetrating his body, he was grateful he hadn’t lost that feeling before being brought to his own pleasure.  It helped.

After, empty but satisfied, he shifted only enough to keep his head away from the wall before a warm, solid body lay next to his, partly on his, the presence welcome as his body and mind cooled down.

"I'm uh... Blake, by the way."  Part of him hoped for a return, but another part felt compelled to give it.  Bruce's voice was completely absent from his mind, though he was certain it was railing at him somewhere distant.  "John Blake."

There was quiet at first, only the low creaking beneath them as the ship moved, and the hush of their breathing.

"Bane," rumbled soft, incomplete lips against John's neck.  "My name is Bane.  Only that.  You may have that."

The word rumbled through John's skin.  Propping himself up, he considered the man's face, his eyes, letting the name attach to him.  "Bane."

A strong hand cupped his jaw, drawing him close, pressing the name between their lips.


End file.
